


Make Me A Paradise

by rory_the_dragon



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Gang Fic, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, mentions of gang violence, slight dom/sub undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6670198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jongup understands guns.</p>
<p>(A Kingdom!Verse fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me A Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this in response to the Kingdom MV and I just realised that that came out nearly two months ago...I am not a fast writer. Infinite thanks to Oz for putting up with my snails pace, detouring into other fics, and generally whining about why these two wouldn't hurry up and come :P
> 
> This is set before the Kingdom MV. Like. Think night before.

 

Jongup understands guns.

They’re easier than people, he figures. Point, aim, and pull, _bang_. Simple. Take out a knee, take out a man, take out an empire; with his gun in his hand, Jongup knows what to do.

He’s not the best shot in the Kings, the dubious honour going to Himchan despite Youngjae’s repeated challenges with his knives, and if he’s being honest Jongup’s better with his fists, but he learnt his guns from his mother. Learnt how to stash one in his boot, how to hold one like a proper gangster instead of the idiots in Hollywood movies, how to take one apart and clean it like he’s looking after a lover.

So the night before an operation, Jongup spends his time with his guns. Ensuring they’re all in perfect condition – they are – because if he takes a bullet to the chest the next day, it’s not going to be his guns’ fault.

He’s not the only one with a tradition like this. Himchan spends the night with his car, turning over everything in his hands until he’s more oil than flesh, and Jongup’s not entirely convinced he doesn’t sleep there. Youngjae sharpens his knives beside Jongup, filing himself to a deadly point that would make Jongup shudder if he didn’t know the musical laugh of the other boy. Yongguk and Daehyun spar until they’re too tired to stand, to think, to do anything other than collapse into sleep. Junhong doesn’t sleep, too busy going over everything again and again, information scrolling in front of him too fast for Jongup to follow, which is true of everything Junhong is.

They all deal with it differently and quietly, their usually humming home turned down for the night as they prepare.

Which is why Jongup is surprised when, the evening before they head into what they all know is going to be the biggest thing they’ve done in years, he’s pulled out of the soothing rhythm of gun oil and steel, by a hand on his shoulder.

He blinks. “Hyung?”

Yongguk’s forehead is beaded with sweat, his chest rising and falling in the tell-tale signs of just finishing a round with Daehyun, but he still looks alert enough to be sparring for a few more hours yet. The two bottles of water in his hand explain the break, but not why he’s here with Jongup.

Until Yongguk jerks his chin up silently, and Jongup follows their leader’s gaze to the other side of the room. To where Junhong is sitting. Actually, to where Junhong is _crouching_ on one of the dining chairs, body folded up in the way he gets sometimes as if he forgets he’s not small anymore, and thumb tucked between his lips.

Jongup sees the glint of teeth attack the digit, sees the way Junhong’s other hand buries itself in his hair and tugs viciously, and understands.

He nods and, satisfied, Yongguk goes to take Daehyun his water.

Jongup returns to the gun in his hands, finishing the job at hand first, before he clicks the weapon back together and lays it with its sisters. He gets up from the couch, moving for the first time in hours, and stretches, clicking his back gratifyingly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Youngjae on the other side of the sofa pull a disgusted face at the sound, but he’s too involved in his knives to really register anything else.

Jongup wanders to the kitchen, still blinking his way out of the laser-like focus his guns give him, and grabs himself a bottle of water. He chugs it all, then heads into the small bathroom off the kitchen to piss. He has to leave the door open behind him, the light went out last week and all of their money has gone into this final shove against the Sharks - they’ve had to do without things like light-bulbs and food with flavour - but everyone’s too immersed in their own tasks to call him out for it.

Grabbing another bottle of water on his way through, he heads back into the main room. Youngjae is still in the exact same position as when he left, but across the room Junhong only seems to have gotten more distressed. The youngest is tapping on his laptop with a force that shakes the screen, and Jongup can hear his frustrated noises from all the way over here.

Jongup gets it. The last time Kings had made a final strike against a rival gang had been five years ago and Junhong, only fifteen at the time, hadn’t been in the fray. Yongguk hadn’t allowed it.

Junhong’s been on many jobs since, either behind his laptop or with a gun in his hands and Jongup at his back, but Jongup knows he’s never quite gotten over not being there for the job that put them on the map. And he’s pushing himself harder than usual for this one.

Junhong doesn’t even stir as Jongup leans to place the bottle of water by his laptop, too busy monitoring the five different windows he has up in front of him. Jongup can identify a security camera feed that Jongup himself set up outside The Sharks garage three weeks ago in the top left corner of the screen, but the rest is moving too fast for him to keep up.

Times like this, Jongup remembers why Junhong and his laptop can be so scary.

Junhong’s in his element when he’s out on the streets, swindling passers-by into revealing everything they didn’t know they had with his innocent smile and big eyes. That’s how Yongguk found the kid all those years ago. It’s where Jongup loves to watch him, when the two of them are on recon together, watching him turn back to Jongup with the toothy curve of his _damn I’m good_ grin already spreading across his lips, making Jongup want to drag him into the nearest alleyway and get him on his knees.

But with his laptop, Junhong’s goddamn _terrifying_.

He takes in information the way Jongup takes in breath. Every skitter of his slender fingers brings up something new and Junhong absorbs it all, eyes flashing across the screen, lost in a trance of ones and zeroes. Jongup’s certain Junhong could bring about the end of the world, if he just had his laptop and an Internet connection.

Jongup places a hand on the bunched up muscles of Junhong’s shoulder and receives no reaction. He sighs, thumb already finding a knot at the top of Junhong’s spine. “Junhongie,” He murmurs, kneading gently.

This time, he gets a grunt.

Jongup breathes a laugh, and presses harder with his thumb.

A groan.

“ _Junhongie_.” He whines a little on the word, the way he knows Junhong hates, and is rewarded with a roll of Junhong’s shoulder, trying to dislodge him.

But just as he does, Jongup’s thumb hits gold. The breath stutters out of Junhong, the line of his neck bowing forward, and Jongup can't see his face but he knows the way Junhong looks right now; eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, lips slightly parted, a wrinkle at the bridge of his nose

“M’busy, hyung.” When Junhong finally speaks, his voice is rusty with disuse.

Jongup frowns. “Water,” he reminds, and Junhong sighs but reaches for the bottle Jongup left for him automatically. He knows he’s not exactly brilliant at looking after himself when he falls into his computer. They’ve all learnt to leave bowls of ramen dotted around Junhong as he works so that when his body remembers it needs something other than data to function he has something to inhale, cold or not.

As Junhong gulps at his water, Jongup brings his other hand up. They fit around the bumps of Junhong’s collarbones, Jongup’s fingers nearly meeting over the other boy’s windpipe. Jongup rests them there, gentle but firm, as his thumbs begin to work in earnest along the muscles of Junhong’s shoulders.

Junhong is the kind of tense Jongup’s just spent the past few hours working out of his own body.

Junhong moans quietly

“Jongup, I'm working,” he says, but he's no longer trying to shove Jongup off. In fact, his head is tipping back, resting against Jongup’s stomach, hands going slack on the keyboard.

Jongup hums instead of answering, and Junhong cracks open an eye to glare at him.

“I’m serious, hyung.”

Flattening his palms, Jongup slides his hands down until they find Junhong’s, twists their fingers together. In spite of his, weakening, glare, Junhong accepts him easily, moving his head to the side as Jongup dips and rests his chin on Junghong’s shoulder. “I know.”

He doesn't tell Junhong he’s worried about him. Doesn't tell him that he's done all he can for them for now. Doesn't tell him that stressing himself out about tomorrow isn't going to do anyone any good. Because Junhong won’t listen to him.

“Yongguk-hyung was getting worried,” is what he ends up saying, quiet by the shell of Junhong’s ear, and feels Junhong stiffen.

Jongup’s certain there’s no one in the world who loves as much as Junhong loves Yongguk. Yongguk saved Junhong, found a kid on the streets and saw something worthwhile in him, raised him in lieu of parents Junhong never speaks about, and sure there were those awkward couple of years where Junhong was completely head over heels for their leader, but he eventually grew out of it. Jongup knows the feeling; he owes everything to Yongguk.

They all do.

Yongguk was barely a player in the game when he found them, younger than most gangsters and fighting to prove himself. Fighting to make the city he called home something better than it had become.

He and Daehyun had been boyhood friends, Jongup knew, Daehyun more than willing to follow his friend into the dregs of Seoul as he worked his way up to form the Kings. Jongup has no idea if he’d be able to do that for a seventeen-year-old kid with dreams too big for his boots, but he supposes that if that kid was Yongguk he might have.

Himchan had come next, but even Jongup doesn’t know that story.

Youngjae had tried to kill Daehyun. They’d all been there for the aftermath of that, when Daehyun had brought home a baby-faced assassin and presented him to Yongguk. To this day Youngjae won’t say who sent him after the Kings. The only thing he will say is that Daehyun has a much better ass.

Jongup…Jongup had been in the wrong fight in the wrong time, running with the wrong crew, taking a knife to the ribs and waking up, surprisingly not dead, on Yongguk’s bed with Yongguk standing over him and offering him a choice. He took it.

There have been more over the years, Yongguk gathering kids who need help and giving them something to work for, but for Jongup it’s always been the six of them. The inner circle. The family.

“Worried?” Junhong turns his head a little, so that Jongup’s nose is flush with the line of his cheek. There’s no one paying attention, so Jongup nuzzles there slightly, trying to work away the frown on Junhong’s face.

Junhong closes his eyes, leans into the touch, but the frown stays.

“You’re pushing yourself too much,” Jongup says, voice still quiet, because even if Youngjae is engrossed in his knives he knows how much Junhong hates letting his guard down when he’s like this. “You know you’ve got everything in that head of yours, you can power down for a bit.”

“But what if-”

“What if my gun jams? What if Daehyun falls? What if Youngjae misses the heart?” With each question, Jongup kisses lightly at the skin of Junhong’s neck. “We can plan as much as we want to, but it won’t make a damn difference tomorrow.”

He swipes his thumbs over the backs of Junhong’s hands and, slowly, Junhong unfolds himself from his crouched position. He loses a couple of the inches of height Jongup was pressing himself against and, when he finally closes his laptop, he seems to shrink even more in the absence of the harsh white light. Like this, Jongup can remember the tiny stick of a boy he met when he first joined up with the Kings, who was all anger and hurt, who fell asleep on Yongguk’s shoulder after a hard days run, who had the stupidest fucking hair Jongup has ever seen. Who took ahold of Jongup from the beginning.

“Your guns never jam,” Junhong says quietly, finally turning to look Jongup in the eye.

“And your intel is always good,” Jongup reminds him, but he can see the doubt still there in Junhong’s eyes.

It’s nothing at all to close the gap between their mouths. Junhong immediately makes a noise, the surprised little hum he always makes, even when he’s well aware of what Jongup’s about to do, and every time it just makes Jongup press harder, hand rising to cup Junhong’s jaw.

He’d never been big on kissing, before Junhong. He liked it, sure, but Jongup’s sure he could spend hours lying on their bed with Junhong, trading kisses back and forth until Junhong’s lips take on that puffy sensitive quality that mean he starts pushing Jongup off and telling him to put his mouth somewhere else if he’s that into it.

Junhong’s not quiet, is the thing, there’s always a sound coming from his throat, a gasp into Jongup’s mouth, a murmured curse bitten onto Jongup’s lip. Like he can’t stop himself, like he never learned how to be quiet.

Before Junhong, Jongup fucked quiet boys, like finds like, had a preference for it even. But with Junhong, Jongup finds himself searching for all the different ways he can make the other boy moan.

When Jongup pulls back, the doubt is gone. There’s no room for it in Junhong’s eyes anymore, not with his pupils blown to blackness.

Their breath is hot, mixing together in the small space between them, and Jongup must have been lying to himself about his guns taking away all his nervous energy because he’s already panting a little from one kiss.

Luckily, Junhong is no better.

His hand fists in Jongup’s hoodie and pulls him down with a force usually reserved for the backseat of the car on night recon, for alleyways and empty staircases, for dragging Jongup into their bedroom. Jongup goes happily, allowing Junhong to take what he needs.

Junhong’s hum turns satisfied as he opens Jongup’s mouth with his own, as their tongues slick together, as Jongup slides a hand into the tugged and tangled mess of Junhong’s hair. At this angle, Junhong’s neck has to be hurting him, but he doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of stopping as he licks at Jongup’s teeth.

For a moment Jongup tries to slow the younger boy, tries to turn the kiss chaste and gentle, because Junhong’s not usually this forceful in front of the others. But Junhong’s not having any of it, chasing after Jongup’s mouth and biting at his bottom lip.

All of that terrifying focus has shifted and Jongup’s the target.

Jongup doesn’t think Junhong knows how to do anything in half measures.

So Jongup bites back, savours the sound Junhong makes. His hands tug a little harder in Junhong’s hair, before the other boy finally gives up on stretching his neck and turns on his chair, presses up on his knees and gains back his height advantage.

Which has never bothered Jongup. Everyone else had cried outrage at the day Junhong had come downstairs in the morning and they had all collectively realised that he had overtaken them all in height. Jongup had gotten over it as soon as Junhong had picked him up around his hips and held him against their bedroom door, crowing in undiluted delight at his new ability.

He’s just rocking up onto his toes, relishing the push and pull, when a cough pulls Jongup out of the _Junhong, Junhong, Junhong_ his thoughts have become.

His eyes immediately go to Youngjae. Or, rather, the space where Youngjae was sitting. Because somewhere along the way Youngjae has disappeared, knives and all, and Jongup didn’t even notice.

Junhong probably did.

Then Jongup spots Yongguk in the doorway. He’s not looking at them, but he’s not looking at them _pointedly_ , studying the floor with the kind of awkward bashfulness their fearsome leader gets when he runs in on similar scenes. Although usually the culprits are Daehyun and Youngjae.

“Hyung,” Junhong says, hands not leaving Jongup’s hoodie, which Jongup is counting as an accomplishment. Usually Junhong’s up like a shot, graceful as fucking anything, as if he hadn’t just been trying to climb _inside_ of Jongup, and ready to help. Or maybe Junhong just really needs this tonight. “You need something?”

Jongup’s hands, fallen back to Junhong’s shoulders, tighten slightly, because he just got Junhong out of his working trance, and if Yongguk needs him for something it’s going to take time to get Junhong back to this pliant and needy state again.

Then he sees the smile Yongguk is trying to suppress as he finally looks at them.

“I have Youngjae in here,” he says slowly, and the amused smile breaks across his cheeks. “Hissing like a cat about you two distracting him.”

Jongup can’t help it. He huffs a laugh. Junhong’s ears are turning dark, and Yongguk can’t seem to decide whether to laugh at them or close the door on them, and sometimes Jongup has difficulty believing that these are two of the toughest gangsters this side of the Han River.

“Youngjae has no room to talk,” Junhong says huffily, shooting Jongup a glare that has him biting back his smirk.

“Just…Maybe take it… _upstairs_?” The sentence sounds like it’s the hardest thing Yongguk has ever had to say, and Yongguk has talked down men holding him at gunpoint.

Jongup rubs his thumb against the side of Junhong’s neck and instantly the affronted lines fall out of the younger boy as he presses into the touch, eyes closing.

“We can do that,” Jongup says whilst Junhong is distracted, and the look Junhong gives him when his eyes slit open lazily tells him that Junhong knows what he’s doing but right now he doesn’t care.

Excuse Jongup for wanting to take his boy upstairs and fuck him into the mattress rather than listen to him squabble with Youngjae about who saw whose dick.

“Just,” Yongguk calls after them as Junhong finally slides off his seat and entwines his fingers with Jongup’s the way he does when he’s ready to pull Jongup off. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

“ _Hyung!_ ” Junhong whines, embarrassed. But when they look back to Yongguk, their leader is the kind of serious he wasn’t a second ago. This is the Yongguk from the battlefield, from the front of the attack, the one responsible for all their lives tomorrow and every day after that.

Jongup’s spine straightens.

Junhong’s fingers on his tighten.

Yongguk turns to head back into the exercise room. “Big day tomorrow,” he says, before he lets the door swing shut behind him.

In the silence, Jongup sees Junhong eye his laptop again and tugs him away firmly.

Thankfully, Junhong comes.

The house they all live in isn’t huge. Most of their money goes towards the Kings, goes to the bail money fund, feeds the dozens of kids in the Kings that Yongguk allows to drop in for food and a place to sleep whenever it’s needed. So they don’t live in a fucking mansion like the Sharks, and the three floors they have are more crowded than not, but it’s big enough.

And, to be honest, Jongup rarely sleeps in his own room anymore. Whenever he needs a night to himself he unlocks the small room that became his home when he accepted Yongguk’s offer to join and curls up in the single bed by the window that he can perfectly see the moon from, and falls asleep listening to Junhong toss and turn in the next room. But from the beginning of their relationship, Junhong’s room has become their room. They even saved up their money for a decent double bed to shove in so that they could sleep a full night without an elbow being slung into someone’s nose.

Their bedroom is one of Jongup’s favourite places. It’s scattered with evidence from Junhong’s adolescence, posters of bands and comic books still hanging from the walls, dog-eared books piled on the window-sill in lieu of a bookshelf, the very potent scent of _boy_ that comes from a teenage boys room. And along the way Jongup has made his mark; the photograph of him and his mother stands on the chest of drawers, the bandages he uses to wrap his knuckles in after a hard fight are coiled besides it, his shoes are kicked in the corner besides Junghong’s. It’s their place.

But Jongup’s favourite thing about their room is the way Junhong looks in it, completely free and all Jongup’s.

So the slight frown creasing into Junhong’s brow as he lets himself be sat on the edge of their bed, is the first thing that needs to go.

“Stop _thinking_ ,” Jongup murmurs, swinging himself onto Junhong’s lap.

Habitually, Junhong’s hands come to rest on his ass, holding him in place, even as he takes a second to meet Jongup’s eye. When he looks at Jongup, he looks the kind of young that makes Jongup’s heart ache.

Jongup presses in, rubs his nose against Junhong’s. “What do you want?” He asks, his hands finding Junhong’s neck and holding on. He pulls away, and Junhong leans in, following him, his mouth. Jongup places one, two, three kisses gently on the pout of Junhong’s mouth, before he moves to his ear. “Tell me what you want, Junhongie.”

He bites at Junhong’s earlobe, teeth sharp, and Junhong hisses.

He moves, mouth sliding along the line of Jongup’s cheek, and Jongup lets him capture his mouth. It’s off-angle and inelegant, but Jongup hums, pleased.

“I want,” Junhong starts, then stops. He buries his head in the place where Jongup’s neck meets his shoulder, hands moving to Jongup’s hips and holding on tight enough to leave bruises across Jongup’s pale skin. Those are always Jongup’s favourites, even over the hickeys Junhong loves to suck into his collarbone. He loves the way he can see Junhong’s thumb print on the jut of his hip, almost like he’s still holding him there.

Jongup threads a hand through Junhong’s hair. “What?” He prompts, and hisses himself as Junhong’s teeth graze over his skin.

Junhong lifts his head, and his eyes are suddenly wild. Jongup could lose everything from his car keys to his sanity in the way Junhong is looking at him right now. “I want you to make me not think.”

That, Jongup can do.

His hands slide under the dense material of Junhong’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and Junhong catches on quickly, taking the task from Jongup as Jongup moves to pull his own hoodie up and over his head. In his thin t-shirt the room feels colder, and Jongup, not a fan of the chill, slips his hands up and under Junhong’s shirt. The other boy is warm beneath his hands, as burning as ever, and Jongup traces the lines of Junhong’s abs before pushing his shirt and hoodie up in one swift movement.

They’re practised enough at this by now that Junhong no longer gets his long-ass limbs caught up and stuck in all the material, but his hair is a fucking state when the clothing is pulled away and thrown somewhere Jongup isn’t keeping track of right now. Which isn’t right, because Jongup should be the only thing messing Junhong up right now, so he fists his hands in the sandy mess and tugs Junhong in.

Pressed against him, Junhong is all heat and lean muscle, baby fat long burnt away from training and running without looking over his shoulder, and he becomes so yielding beneath Jongup’s touch, giving up spaces of himself for Jongup to climb over.

Jongup’s not sure he’ll ever know what to do with the Junhong who hands over everything he is to Jongup’s battered hands, but if Junhong trusts him enough to do so, he’ll do his best.

He breaks out of the kiss, running his teeth along Junhong’s bottom lip and pulling, just the other side of gentle. Junhong’s head tips back, and Jongup lets him go, finding the side of his neck. There’re fading bruises still there, shadows on Junhong’s throat evidence of Jongup and the way he likes to bite to the point that there are some morning Junhong can’t shave with how sensitive his skin is.

Jongup thumbs at the palest one, so faded now that Junhong barely reacts to the touch. He frowns, put out. “I haven’t been looking after you properly have I?” He murmurs, and above him Junhong whines, head shaking.

“The rest are still there,” He says on a breath, hands balled into fists by Jongup’s waist moving to his back pockets, and pulling Jongup closer, hips rolling to try and remind him of the bruises scattered like petals across the pale skin of Junhong’s thighs that Jongup put there the other night.

Still, Jongup hums, displeased.

It’s not just that Jongup likes to bite. Junhong has a thing about marking. Likes to suck bruises into Jongup’s chest, rake his nails down his back, likes to litter him with proof of himself, denotations of _his_ across Jongup’s body. And Jongup knows that Junhong needs the same confirmation of Jongup over him, presses at the bruises when he’s feeling antsy, so he places them where they’re noticeable, where Junhong can catch a glimpse of them in the reflection of his laptop, where they press into his keyboard when he rests his wrists there.

He doesn't say sorry, because they don't do that, no apologies in the Kings, but when he ducks his head to line his teeth along the line of Junhong’s neck, he pushes the word into his skin. Beneath his tongue, Junhong tastes of sweat and skin, of too many hours cramped in front of his computer, of buzzing energy and the metallic zing of electricity.

Jongup can’t get enough.

As he works, he trips a hand down the middle of Junhong’s chest, fingers splayed until they catch on the snap of his jeans. Junhong groans, hips bucking, and through the denim Jongup can feel him hard under his hand.

He tugs a little at the lip of Junhong’s jeans, before sliding his hand back up and away.

“Jongu-” Junhong’s complaint is rocked away as soon as Jongup presses the pads of his fingers to the dusk of Junhong’s nipple. He pinches, light, and then harder, and Junhong jolts against him.

Smiling, satisfied, Jongup pulls back to admire his handiwork. The wet bruise at Junhong’s throat isn't his best work but it's still a fucking work of art, darkening even as Jongup looks and the blood rushes to the surface. He blows cool air across the skin, and marvels “ _Ah_ ,” as Junhong shudders.

“Better?” He asks, releasing his right hand from Junhong’s shoulder to mimic the motions of his left, pebbling Junhong’s nipple under his thumb.

Junhong's hands are clenched in the sheets, from holding himself still as Jongup worked, and now they rise up to wrap tight around Jongup, fingers digging into the older boy’s back. He doesn't answer Jongup’s question, but in this state Jongup supposes he didn't really expect him to.

Jongup doesn't think Junhong’s even fully aware of the circling of his hips as he looks up at Jongup, every movement of Jongup’s fingers echoing across his face. Or maybe he is, maybe he means for Jongup to fall into the rhythm of it, settled in Junhong’s lap and grinding back whenever Junhong’s manoeuvres make his breath catch in his throat.

Which definitely means he’s still thinking too much.

“Junhong,” He murmurs, lips smudging his words against Junhong’s cheek as he slips, trips, a hand down between them to flick the button on Junhong’s jeans open. “Junhong, look at me.”

Junhong’s head tips back, nose finding the crook of Jongup’s, forehead pressing to his. There’s still that wildness in his eyes, that hurricane of Junhong that Jongup can never quite touch, but it’s clouding, around the edges, as Jongup pushes his hand into the heat of Junhong’s boxers.

“Keep looking at me,” he instructs, as he gets his hand around Junhong, holds him hard and heavy in his palm. “Do you know what I’m going to do, Junhong?” He punctuates the question with a small kiss to the bow of Junhong’s lips, and Junhong shakes his head.

Jongup smiles. It’s the smile that even Youngjae admits is terrifying. It’s the smile that appears on his face without even meaning for it to. It’s the smile that Junhong says is one of his favourites.

Slowly, he moves his hand, as much as he can in the restricted space of Junhong’s jeans, and the slide is slick after only two pumps. “I’m going to make you come,” he says, the words coming easy to his lips the way they always do when it’s just him and Junhong, but still quiet, spoken between the two of them for just the two of them. “Like this. In your shorts. With just my hand.” Unerringly, Jongup’s thumb finds Junhong’s slit and Junhong’s eyes scrunch closed, everything written across his face as he bucks.

Jongup stills, waits for Junhong to blink foggy eyes open again, find Jongup again. “First,” Jongup finishes, and waits for Junhong’s brain to process the word.

“ _First?_ ”

Jongup steals the rasped word from Junhong’s mouth, coaxes it out with his tongue, bites it out with his teeth.

“First.” He nods, and moves his hand.

Something wicked in Jongup loves this. He’s still fully clothed, but underneath him Junhong looks wrecked already. Shirtless and red marks appearing across his torso, nipples swollen, jeans undone with Jongup’s hand moving slow and obvious inside his underwear. It takes surprisingly little for Junhong to look utterly debauched, mussed hair and wet lips usually enough to make him look fucking indecent, but like this Jongup’s brain hardly knows where to look.

He thinks he likes this part the most, seeing Junhong pant as he twists his hand on the upstroke, feeling the half-moons of Junhong’s nails pressing into the back of his hips beneath his shirt, knowing that Jongup is the one turning him into this, this creature.

Junhong’s really not going to take long here, if the choked sounds he’s making are any indication, which they are. He’s too wound up, too wired and too teenage-boy to last long right now.

Jongup wraps his spare arm around Junhong’s shoulders as the younger boy gasps, hips shoving into Jongup’s fist, and chases his mouth for a kiss. Junhong’s barely capable, sucking at Jongup’s bottom lip, his tongue, his chin, body too focused on where Jongup’s wrist is starting to fucking ache but fuck if Jongup’s stopping before he-

“ _Fuck_.” The word sounds more like a groan, low in the back of Junhong’s throat before it’s kicked out of him, rocketing forward as he buries his face in Jongup’s neck and come floods sticky over Jongup’s hand.

Easing his hand out, Jongup kisses at Junhong’s temple as the other boy catches his breath, smiling smugly when it takes Junhong a few moments before he raises his head. Then he lifts his hand to his mouth, licks his fingers clean, and Junhong’s eyes refocus to watch him.

It’s bitter, which means Jongup can't be the only one who suffers through this just to be sexy, so once he’s done he kisses Junhong open mouthed and precise, licking inside. When he pulls back, Junhong is pulling a face, and Jongup laughs.

“It's _yours_ ,” he points out, swinging off of Junhong’s lap and heading to the dresser to grab some tissues for his hand. Walking is kind of difficult, considering he’s hard as a fucking rock right now, but he manages.

“Gross,” is Junhong’s stunning reply, and Jongup rolls his eyes as he chucks the tissues in the bin, snags a bottle from the dresser, and pulls his top off over his head.

“Against the pillows,” he instructs, toeing off his boots and undoing his belt. “Clothes off.”

He hears Junhong scramble to comply, the drop of his boots and the slight too-sensitive noise he makes when he has to peel his cooling boxers off, and when Jongup turns, Junhong’s sitting with his arms wrapped around his legs, head resting on his knees, and waiting, naked as the dawn.

He looks fucking precious.

Even with evidence of a recent orgasm flush all over him.

Especially.

Jongup drops his jeans but leaves his boxers on, tossing the tube onto the bed and crawling on after it to sit in front of Junhong. Junhong reaches for him immediately, and Jongup twists their fingers together.

Actually, maybe this is his favourite part. When Junhong reaches out for him and knows Jongup will be there.

This time, when they kiss, it's quiet, slow. Like someone turned the speed down on the world and they have nothing but time.

“Pillows, Junhong,” Jongup says when they part, because they have to part. Because the world exists. Because Junhong never sleeps before a job. “Prop yourself up.”

Once he has, Jongup rests his hands on Junhong’s knees and slides them apart. Junhong’s long legs part for him, spreading Junhong out like a canvas, and Jongup bites his bottom lip looking at him. Junhong’s dick is soft and spent against his thigh, nestled in a knot of dark pubic hair, and Junhong squirms as Jongup’s fingers slip down his legs and get dangerously close to him. Which isn’t Jongup’s intention right now, but he smirks all the same.

Instead he kisses at the inside of Junhong’s knee, bites there, and blindly searches for the bottle of lube. It finds its way to his hand without him even trying, assisted by warm fingers, and when he looks up, Junhong is watching him with eyes that look black and lustful and yet still the softest Jongup has ever seen, however the fuck he’s doing that.

But since when has Junhong ever made sense?

Jongup wants to sit here for the rest of the evening, here between Junhong’s thighs, taking in every inch that is Junhong with his chest still heaving slightly, his eye bright, his cheeks flushed, and he thinks, were it not for the situation in his boxers and the fact that tomorrow is waiting for them, he probably could.

He wants to take Junhong apart and examine every inch before he puts him back together and kisses him, and maybe that’s a little more feasible.

The first finger he tucks inside Junhong’s body goes easy. Jongup knows his way around Junhong’s body the way he knows his way around his guns, and the way Junhong takes his fingers is information stored in his brain with an importance that little else can rival. But still he can’t help but breathe _“Junhong_ ,” in awe as he watches his finger slip in, feel the way Junhong clenches around him, as if it’s the first time.

“How many?” He asks, already pushing in his second, pulling both out to the very pads of his fingers, before he rocks them back into the stunning heat of Junhong’s body, and he has to wait until Junhong’s eyes have finished rolling back into his skulls.

He asks because Junhong varies. Some days he wants it simple, three fingers to prep him for Jongup, opening him up perfectly. Some days he wants two, a slight burn as Jongup pushes in, and on those nights Jongup has nail marks up and down his back for days. And then some days he wants-

“ _Four_ ,” Junhong gasps out, because Junhong is the smartest boy Jongup has ever met. He knows what Jongup’s doing tonight, he knows that he’s not getting Jongup’s dick until he’s shaking and ready to burst. He probably figured it out as soon as Jongup said ‘first’ but that’s what Jongup gets for giving him hints.

The pit of Jongup’s stomach stirs, shifting, hot and wanting. His other hand, that's so far been kept light on the skin of Junhong’s thigh, skimming teasingly along the sensitive flesh, tightens. The nails Jongup had been trailing bluntly near Junhong’s knee dig in, and the edge of pain Junhong always craves has the muscle jumping in the younger boy’s leg, has Junhong choking on a groan, has Jongup fidgeting as he pushes a third finger inside Junhong.

Junhong’s gotten hard again, somewhere whilst Jongup was watching the slide of his own fingers in and out of his boy’s body, and Jongup’s knuckles graze underneath the head as he pulls out. Junhong _shouts_. Even hard again, he’s still too sensitive, too burnt at the edges. His eyes are screwn shut and Jongup slides his other hand up to his shoulder and behind his neck, in his hair. He pulls Junhong forward, close enough that their lips are almost touching. The breath of Junhong’s cry is still hot on his mouth, and then Jongup presses their mouths together as he twists his fingers back inside Junhong and swallows the next cry the other boy makes.

Kissing Junhong again makes Jongup greedy. He keeps going. He’s balanced precariously over the other boy, position held by the strength in his thighs and he can feel the muscles burning. But he doesn’t stop, arching over Junhong and pressing him back against the headboard, chasing the kisses that Junhong keeps biting at him frantically.

The change in position is enough that Junhong sucks in a breath that mainly comes from Jongup’s lungs. “ _Jongup_ ,” he hisses, voice straining, closer to a keen than it is to the sense of Jongup’s name.

Then Jongup adds his fourth finger. The fit is tight, he can feel Junhong’s body clenching around him. Both of them break away, foreheads falling together as they watch the way Junhong is taking his fingers, slickness spread around the backs of his thighs, across Jongup’s palm. Jongup can hear himself speaking, nonsense about the way Junhong feels around him, how much he wants to be _inside_ him, be surrounded by him, swallowed up by him, but he's barely listening to himself as his fingers move and move and

He’s been searching for that tricky spot inside of Junhong, but with his fingers filling all of the other boy, he brushes against it entirely by accident.

Junhong comes, silent for a second as his body tenses up, then crying out as his thighs untighten from around Jongup, his nails unclaw from Jongup’s shoulders. It takes the removal of the pressure, the air finding what are definitely cuts in the flesh, for Jongup to even notice.

He sucks in a breath. At the new scratches on his back, at Junhong sprawling like his limbs are made of liquorice, at the the way that, in the absence of his singleminded focus on his task, the hardness in his boxers in becoming unbearable.

He palms himself, and even nearly wiped out and breathing hard, Junhong’s sharp eyes catch the movement.

“Jonguppie,” he _purrs_ and tries to push himself up. It takes him a couple of attempts but eventually he gets his elbows to hold him up. His eyes look all black and glinting. “Are you going to fuck me yet?”

Jongup swallows. “Can you manage it?” He asks. Junhong’s eyes narrow, but Jongup isn't asking to tease. He didn't meant to make Junhong come more than twice. Twice is usually as many as the other boy can handle before he wants to curl up around Jongup and pass out. He just...kinda...got carried away.

But Junhong seems to take his words as a personal affront, hand reaching to splay out on Jongup’s chest. It's slick with sweat.

He pushes at Jongup, other hand reaching to his bicep and twisting, and maybe he's not the little kid who could never move Jongup even if he pushed his whole body weight against him anymore but he’s weak as a kitten right now and Jongup has to let himself be moved, pushed down into the pillows as Junhong settles himself in his lap. The warm wet weight of him resting on Jongup makes lights burst out behind Jongup’s eyelids, and he didn't even realise he’d closed them.

He opens them again to see a Junhong he’s very familiar with. So far tonight Junhong has let himself be moved and ordered and looked after, melting like butter in Jongup’s hands because they both knew he needed it. Jongup loves that Junhong. It reminds him of when they first settled into being who they are together, once Junhong got past the anger and the pride that meant he refused to let himself be vulnerable except in those few moments before he fell asleep in Jongup’s arms. How he let Jongup give him what he needed, how he accepted that two of them were something to hold onto. But as they grew older, a balance was found in Junhong, and Jongup can see it now. The Junhong who insists on taking care of Jongup too. And this Junhong is Jongup’s favourite.

Even if the tired smirk on Junhong’s lips is rather ominous.

“I can manage it.”

The heat that’s spread through the pit of Jongup’s stomach electrifies as Junhong lifts himself up, thigh muscles wavering ever so slightly, and creates enough space to draw Jongup’s boxers down to his knees. Jongup’s dick drags free, springing up against his stomach, and he groans. He kicks his boxers free blindly, eyes having closed again, but is brought back to himself by Junhong’s hand on him, trying to guide him inside.

He reaches out.

Junhong stops at the hand suddenly on his wrist, holding him still, and in that stillness it takes Jongup a while to find the words losing themselves in the back of his throat. He can feel Junhong’s long fingers encircling him, can feel the heat of the other boy so close, feel the phantom weight of Junhong waiting to fall on him and, god, he wants it all. But Junhong isn’t hard again yet. So Jongup lifts his chin slightly, and Junhong catches on in the way he always does to Jongup’s little gestures.

He leans down, dark eyes softening before they close and he gives his mouth over to Jongup. It could almost be lazy, lazy kissing, but for the way Jongup’s entire body feels alight with Junhong, but for the way Junhong stretches himself out across Jongup’s body, not caring about the drying splatters of come on his stomach, to kiss him deep and open. Jongup’s knees tighten either side of Junhong’s hips, bracketing him there. His hands find Junhong’s back. He keeps his own hips still, because Junhong is resting close enough that he can feel the cleft of his ass and every bone in his body wants to push up and inside.

Junhong moves to Jongup’s jawbone, his neck, the crook of his throat, teeth scraping and nipping as he works his way to the centre of Jongup’s chest and back up, making the circuit once, twice, a third time, and Jongup feels the exact moment Junhong’s hips circle. Just the once, instinct more than anything else, but the hand Jongup has on the dimples at the small of Junhong’s back stiffens.

Then there’s a grin at his adam’s apple. “Hyung.” Junhong’s voice sounds almost exhausted, and that would be enough for Jongup to sit him up and tell him to go to sleep while Jongup took an extended shower, were it not for the sly edge resting there. For the way Junhong’s eyes glint up at him, silently telling Jongup that if he doesn’t fuck the younger boy tonight then he best not try and sleep in this bed at all.

Jongup looks him over. He nods and then Junhong is moving, pushing himself up, rising off of Jongup’s body for one shuddering moment… before everything becomes heat once more.

Twin groans pull out of them as Junhong meets Jongup’s hips. Fuck Jongup was lying. About all of it. This is his favourite moment. When it’s just skin and each other. When Junhong’s hands are braced against his chest, head hanging as he fucks himself onto Jongup, their eyes locked. When the sweat slick strands of hair fall in Junhong’s face, darkening his face from Jongup but still Jongup sees every inch of him. The way he can see himself disappearing inside of Junhong, no fuck that, he can _feel_ himself disappearing inside of Jongup, feel himself being swallowed as if Junhong is staking a claim on his body and soul.

Jongup is wrecked, is coming apart at the seams, but Junhong is tiring above him. He can see it in the curve of his spine, the stuttering of his movements as he tries and fails to keep rhythm. When Jongup thrusts his hips up, Junhong is more than willing to hand the control back to him, give over to Jongup’s hands finding his waist and holding him still as he snaps up again.

Then Jongup flips them and, _oh_. He stutters for a second, sliding back into Junhong on the downthrust and finding the new angle tighter, closer. Junhong is pressed up against him, bent almost double as his legs wrap somewhere around Jongup’s ribs and tug him in, and Jongup feels almost dizzy.

He can’t do anything more impressive than keep fucking into Junhong. Head burying in the sweat of his neck, lips and teeth and mouth and tongue finding the skin offered before him and breath huffing out as he steadies himself on the back of Junhong’s knee and comes home again and again.

It doesn’t hit him out of nowhere, like he thought it would. Jongup is wound too tight for him to expect anything other than his orgasm to hit him like a goddamn freight train, wiping him off the tracks.

But, instead, Junhong’s hands find his jaw. Lift him out of his neck and cup him inches from his face. Jongup can see every movement of his hips written across Junhong’s face in his bitten down lips, the crease of a v in between his eyebrows as he moves with Jongup. But he finds Junhong’s eyes, so close to unfocused but still settle unerringly on him, and the electricity in his stomach ignites.

It pulses out of him, spreading like warm honey through his veins until it hits his extremities and he stutters, shakes, and comes inside of Junhong with a noise that could be Junhong’s name, could be a prayer. Like this, Jongup doesn’t know the difference.

Junhong watches him through it, one hand leaving Jongup’s face to attend to his neglected dick, and after Jongup has spilled inside of him, Junhong manages one, final, orgasm with a weak noise that definitely isn’t any words at all.

For a second, neither of them breathe.

Even if this isn’t Jongup’s favourite part, he thinks it’s pretty damn close as Junhong blinks wet eyes up at him and the corner of his ruined mouth curves into a smile.

Or maybe it is. Maybe Jongup’s selfish enough to claim them all.

He falls rather than pulls out of Junhong, tumbling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. There’s a stain there he never noticed before. A crack running through it. Outside the window he can suddenly hear cars passing in the night again. The slight patter of a rain he didn’t notice arrive. There’s a draft, coming from under the door, and gooseflesh rises along his arm. The world, bleeding back in.

A hand finds his, damp, and he grasps it back.

“Jongup,” Junhong croaks, and Jongup replies, “Yeah.”

They lie there together, without any more words and joined only by their hands and the places where their legs still touch, for a long time. Until Jongup hears Junhong’s breathing begin to grow heavier, and nudges him.

“Not yet,” he says, and coaxes his body into standing.

It’s automatic, finding sweatpants from the floor and a shirt that was headed for the wash anyway and pulling them on even as Junhong curls around his body, reluctant to let him leave even if only momentarily. Jongup leans back on the bed, hand rising to thumb at the line of Junhong’s cheek, before he kisses the skin there. “Two minutes,” he promises, then rises.

By the time he gets back, Junhong is almost asleep again. Which he expected, really. Three orgasms do not an energetic Junhong make. He looks a mess; covered in blossoming bruises, still flushed in some places, hair sticking to his forehead with perspiration, flaking come on his abdomen, dripping from between his thighs. He looks beautiful.

Jongup takes the warm cloth he fetched and brushes  it across Junhong’s body, clearing up the mess of his stomach, gently running it between his legs, which is when Junhong stirs again. He moves obligingly, allowing Jongup to reach every part of him he messed up, then tugs Jongup back to bed.

They settle into bed with ease. The sheets need changing and they’re both still too hot, but Jongup sighs with contentment as Junhong curls his body onto his chest and he wraps an arm around him. He knows what this is, a calm before a storm. But it’s a calm he worked hard for, so Jongup is going to appreciate every second.

“Hey,” he murmurs into Junhong’s hair, and Junhong snuffles a response. “How’s the thinking going?”

Junhong tilts his head back. “Quieter,” he says, and presses up to kiss Jongup once, chaste. “Thank you.” And in seconds, he’s asleep, snoring lightly in Jongup’s arms, face blissfully blank as the night washes off of him.

 

***

 

In the morning, that peace is gone almost as soon as they wake.

Around them, the house is already frantic. Himchan’s voice is somewhere on the lower floors. There’s shouting in the yard. A low, calming, buzz puts Yongguk somewhere outside, probably loading the trucks. Jongup can hear footsteps, light-footed and quick, the younger recruits of the Kings racing to do everything they can to help prepare, to aid in any way they can.

Jongup can remember the days when that was Junhong.

He knows Junhong is awake before the other boy lets him know, feels his body go from boneless to alert and tense in less than a second. He can _hear_ his brain turn back on. He sighs, presses a kiss to the mole on the back of Junhong’s shoulder, and makes to get up.

He’s stopped before he can set one foot on the floor.

Long arms catch him, cross over his chest, hold him there. He can feel Junhong’s breath at his ear, his chest pressing to his back, and stills. He doesn’t turn back to look, imagines that if he did, Junhong wouldn’t let him. Instead he waits, feeling the thump of his heartbeat in his ribs, the illusion of Junhong’s heartbeat against his back.

“Promise me,” Junhong says, lips brushing the shell of Jongup’s ear he’s so close. “You won’t fuck up.”

Jongup would laugh, but it isn’t funny. He nods, and promises, “Only if you don’t.”

Junhong does laugh, a short exhale. “Deal.” Then he presses his face into Jongup’s shoulder, and Jongup feels him press the words he can’t say into the skin there.

_Come back to me_.

And, silently, he promises that too.

He’ll trust in his guns. They’ll bring him back to Junhong.

  


End file.
